


Twin High-Maintenance Machines

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn’t thought of it before, but for all the ways she’s reigning in control lately, he’s having to loosen it. He’s still new to the BBC press machine, the paparazzi, the autographs at the dry cleaner, all of it’s such an adjustment, learning to let go. And here she is, leaving, taking one more decision out of his hands. (Post-Doomsday-BWB-filming sex in a trailer!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twin High-Maintenance Machines

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [badddest](http://thebadddestwolf.tumblr.com/), because of [this exchange](http://thebadddestwolf.tumblr.com/post/72931220127/allrightfine-replied-to-your-post-allrightfine), even if I changed 'van' to trailer. And it's for [Melissa](http://somethingofthewolf.tumblr.com), because all my RPF is for Melissa. It's also sort of filthy, I'm sort of ashamed. Light BDSM warning! 
> 
> Title from The Mountain Goats, "This Year."

She's kept herself under tight control for days, weeks, months, maybe even years.

An adolescence spent in charge of virtually nothing about her entire existence, relationships where she felt obligated to behave much the same, her recent life, under the thumb of the BBC, all of it adding up, building, growing, mutating until she finally objected. 

She took it all back by force, forged a new self in her own ideal image, and it led her here -- a decision to leave a show she's not sure she wants to leave anymore and the wide open road of freedom (and unemployment) ahead of her. 

That, too, came with its own price, and she's had to live with it, had to pretend this was what she still wanted. No emotional outbursts, no regret, a British stiff upper lip and a false confidence for the future. 

But today -- _today_ \-- she's finally letting it all go, she's, in fact, being _paid_ to do it. Tap into all those churning, ugly emotions and pour them onto the sand at David's feet. 

It's frighteningly easy, the dam bursting, the tears, the sorrow, and every time they call cut, David beaming at her proudly through his own veil of sorrow. 

He won't touch her, not yet, he's method in a way that isn't, and if the Doctor can't touch Rose, he won't touch her until they cast the characters off. That thought alone, that she's leaving someone so dedicated to this job, to his performance, that he almost always makes hers better, too, brings a fresh wave of tears, and it spills over just in time for the camera to catch it, and the scene to finally, _finally_ wrap. 

She's hustled into her jacket, and David into his, and then he's there, hugging her, letting her ugly cry against him, snot against nylon, rubbing circles against her back that she can't feel, but can pick out from the sound of his skin moving on the fabric. 

The crew is watching the footage on the monitors, one last look to make certain they've got it (they do, she knows they do) before they can be dismissed back to the trailers, and it feels like an eternity and not long enough. 

When they step away from this scene, when her hand makes that first contact with the door of her trailer, she'll have left a part of herself on this bloody beach. 

It doesn't matter that there are more scenes to film, this one right here is the end for Rose Tyler and the Doctor, and it's the end for Rose Tyler and the Doctor and _her_. 

David's mumbling reassurances in her ear, praise for her performance, nonsense words and soothing platitudes, but she can't make sense of any of it until he pulls back from their embrace. 

"That's it," he says, and his thumb comes up to swipe at the tears still leaking down her cheeks. "They're letting us go."

She mumbles an agreement, confirmation that she's heard him, and then she allows him to lead her across the beach to the trailers with an arm draped across the shoulders of her puffy coat. 

He stops in front of her trailer, unwrapping his arm from her shoulders and fidgeting at the door like a bloke on a date waiting for an invite up. 

"Smuggled some of the good tea out from craft services," she says, sniffling out a watery laugh to try and put herself to rights. "Enough for two, if you want some."

"With you? Always, Bill," and his stupid gentle smile nearly brings on _another_ wave of tears. 

She opens the door, climbing the steps, David following close behind. They both shrug off their coats and various pieces of their costumes, her gloves, his suit jacket, her second jacket, the black one that’s going to mysteriously disappear into her bag when they eventually make the trip back to wardrobe, all of it dropped carelessly on to the small bench in her trailer. 

It’s only when David’s hand brushes against her bare arm that she realizes he’s been helping her, guiding her through the motions of disrobing because she’s too wrung out to do it alone. 

He moves her to the other end of the bench, away from the pile of clothes, the detritus of the people they were, and the person she won’t be again, and settles her down.

“I’ll get the tea,” he says, “Just, here —” he slides a pile of newspapers off the small table across from her, handing it to her, “— read the…Daily Mail? No, here,” he hands her the Guardian instead. “Read, unwind, decompress.”

She takes the paper from him, glancing down at the headlines of war and violence and then looks up to quirk an eyebrow at him, smirking. “Ah, yes, a bit of global crisis, that’ll take the edge right off, David.”

He looks sheepish, grabbing the stack of papers from her and tossing them back to the table, picking up a clothing catalogue and handing it over this time. 

“Here, see if you can find yourself some unemployment kit,” he says.

It’s stupid, really, but it makes her crumple again, eyebrows drawing down as she stares unseeing at the catalogue’s cover. 

“Ah, Bill, Bill, Bill, I’m sorry, I was just teasing, you’ll not be unemployed for long, you’ll have a new job in no time.”

“I don’t _want_ a new job,” she mumbles, and it feels petulant, it _is_ petulant, but she doesn’t cover it up. 

“You don’t?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” she says, the _with you_ implied. “I thought it made sense to get out. Now —“

David looks curious, eyebrows raising, which is silly, she’s told him before, told _press_ before, she wishes she’d have started up with David before making her decision, but still he prompts, “Now?”

“Now I’ve made a decision and I’m bloody well going to stick with it,” she laughs a little, a brittle, bitter sound, and David gives her a sad smile before shuffling the few feet to the electric kettle. 

His back is turned when he says, “I wish you wouldn’t,” but he doesn’t turn around and she doesn’t reply, doesn’t speak again until he’s handing her a mug of tea.

“Ta.”

He slides on to the bench next to her and holds up his mug to clink against hers. “Cheers.”

They sip their tea in silence, the emotions from the scene still thrumming in her blood, adrenaline ratcheting down in steps until she’s got an empty mug and a wrung out feeling. 

David shifts beside her, taking her mug from her and dropping both of them on the small table. 

“Do you, um — do you want a cigarette?”

Her eyebrows raise, surprise flickering across her face and he rushes to correct himself.

“No, no, no, not for me,” he says, hands up in front of him, “I just meant, sometimes I know you like — I know it helps you relax.”

She gives him a lopsided smile and nods. She hadn’t really thought about it, but it _does_ sound like it might help, and, most of all, it’s nice to have someone else making a decision. 

Grabbing the pack off table, she troops down the trailer steps and pushes back out onto the beach. David’s hand rests on her lower back, guiding her around the trailer to the other side, away from the crew still lingering by the waves, packing up equipment. 

She plucks a cigarette from the pack, placing it between her lips before she realizes she hasn’t got a light. David notices, too, and holds up his index finger — _one second_ — before he’s darting back around the trailer. She hears him open the door, grab something, and bang back out toward her. 

Instead of handing her the lighter, he gestures at the hand holding her cigarette, motioning for her to bring it to her mouth before flicking the lighter and bringing the flame toward the tip of her cigarette.

He winks at her as she inhales, every inch the charmer the media likes to paint him as, and lets her get in a few long drags before speaking.

“I’m gonna miss you, Billie,” he says, and it should feel like a non-sequitur, apropos of nothing they’ve been talking about, but somehow it doesn’t. This is a day for big declarations, after all.

Still, she demurs, laughing. “I’m still gonna be around. Not quite rid of me yet, Ten-Inch.”

He rolls his eyes at the nickname, and her evasion. “You know what I mean. It’s all so much easier when you’re there.”

“Oh, nonsense, you’re a brilliant actor opposite anyone, you’ll be fine.”

He smiles at the compliment, but shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “Though I mean that, too. All the interviews, the fans, those bits of madness, it’s better when you’re there.”

She hadn’t thought of it before, but for all the ways she’s reigning in control lately, he’s having to loosen it. He’s still new to the BBC press machine, the paparazzi, the autographs at the dry cleaner, all of it’s such an adjustment, learning to let go. And here she is, leaving, taking one more decision out of his hands. 

They’re quite the pair, she with all this control she doesn’t want, and him floundering for something of his own in a sea of constraints. 

“You’ll get your feet under you in no time,” she says. “It’s not so bad; now that I’m here, I wish somebody would tell _me_ what to do next.”

Between her fingers, the cigarette burns down to the filter, and he snags it from her, turning to drop it into the coffee can a few feet away, set up for that exact purpose. 

“You don’t want another one,” he says, and this time he’s not asking a question, he’s _telling_ her, something sparking in his eyes that makes her heart speed up. 

He returns to her side, ushering her around the trailer before swinging the door open.

They troop back up the steps and she moves to drop back down to the bench when he stops her.

“Lie down,” he says, the low rumble of it making her snap her head around to look at him. “I mean, if you want. If you want to, lie down.” He gestures absently at the small bed tucked in a small room at the back of the trailer, the accordion door folded open from when she’d left this morning. 

There’s something decisive in his expression, but she can’t tell exactly what it is. For all that talk of him as one of Britain’s finest actors, David-the-man is a lot harder to read sometimes. 

So she presses it.

“Do you — do you want me to?” Her voice is quiet, as uncertain as she feels in the tiny trailer, and she has a moment of panic that she’s reading this wrong, that he’ll laugh and shrug and misunderstand.

Instead, ever her equal, he catches on immediately.

“Yeah,” he says in that same rough tone. “Lie down, Bill.”

She nods, moving back to the bench and moving quickly for her shoes, so he can tell she isn’t protesting, just getting ready. 

He drops down into a crouch in front of her, his tie brushing against her shin, and brushes away her hands where she’s fumbling at her shoe.

“Let me do it,” he says, and she immediately pulls her fingers away.

He tugs off one shoe and then the other, leaving her in her socks, and then tugs those off, too. With a glance back at the small bed and a nod to himself, he moves onto his own shoes, untying the trainers in a series of movements that echoes loud in the silence, the only other noise the sound of the waves down the beach. His socks follow, and then he’s lining up both pairs of shoes along the bench and tucking the socks inside. 

“Go lie down, Billie,” he says, tone still brooking no argument. “I’m going to join you.”

She pushes herself off the bench, slipping by him to make her way to the bed, and she can feel the heat of him behind her as he rises to follow. 

There’s not much room on either side of the bed, so instead she kneels to crawl up the mattress, moving quickly to one side of the narrow to mattress to make space for him. 

He slips up beside her, coming to rest on his back like her. His feet nearly hang off the edge of the bed and she nudges her toe into his shin to point out the height difference with a quiet laugh. 

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing at it uncertainly as she waits for further instruction. 

Instead, he seems content to stare at the ceiling, radiating warmth at her side as he breathes soft and even.

“Sh—should I go to sleep?” It feels silly to ask, she’s an adult, became an adult earlier she should have done, but the embarrassment is outstripped by the need to let go, to let somebody else be in charge for a while.

He turns onto his side, his hair ruffling the pillow they’re sharing, and then his hand is reaching for her far shoulder, turning her gently.

“Turn toward me,” he says, waiting for her to follow his direction before meeting her eye. “No, you shouldn’t go to sleep.”

She nods, a tiny movement that brings their faces closer together, his nose only a few inches from her own.

“What should I do?”

His eyes dart back and forth between hers, looking for something, and she tries her best to offer it to him. 

“You should stop asking so many questions,” he says, and then he pauses, drawing a deep breath like he’s steeling himself for something. “If you want. Do you want to stop asking so many questions, Billie? Do you want to just _listen_ to me?”

She nods again, quick enough to be embarrassing. 

“No, answer me in words.”

There’s a moment of panic, she spent so long giving up control, and fought so hard to get it back, that relinquishing it feels like defeat, but no, this is different, this time she _wants_ someone else to make the decisions. She wants _David_ to make the decisions, and she answers in kind. 

“Yes, I want to just listen. To you.”

He exhales a shaky breath, eyes closing briefly before speaking again.

“I just — I want to be sure we’re talking about the same thing.”

“We are,” she says. “Do it, David.” 

In a flash something hardens in his eyes, resolve, maybe, or desire, and he admonishes her.

“You don’t give the orders right now, Billie.”

She nods a third time, a final time, and gives in.

“Close your eyes,” he says. 

She closes them, the absence of sight amplifying her other senses almost immediately. There’s still the sound of the waves, of David’s quiet breathing, the scent of tea on his breath, and the faint feel of nicotine and caffeine humming in her veins. 

“You’ll reciprocate,” he says.

“Wha—?”

He cuts her off. “You’ll reciprocate.”

“Yes.”

She’d been expecting his mouth on hers, anticipating it, wanting it, but when it comes, it’s still a surprise. 

His lips are dry, slightly chapped from the sea air, and he parts them against hers, taking her bottom lip between his own to kiss her softly. 

As ordered, she reciprocates, mimicking his movements, pressing a kiss to his bottom lip when he pulls back, following the motions as he nips at her, swipes a tongue against her mouth, opens his against her own.

He tastes like the tea on his breath, but there’s something salty there, too, and the realization that it’s from his tears on the beach sizzles through her like lightning, sparking in her nerves and making everything feel warm.

His tongue, too, is warm, it’s so hot — wet and faintly rough as it strokes against her own. They’ve kissed before, for work, or in greeting at parties, but it’s nothing like this, this is what she’d _wanted_ to do, all those times, she’d wanted to open up to him, to finally put a match to the fuse that’s always stretched between them. 

It’s stupid, really, comparing the way he kisses to anything else about him, but it’s with that same zeal he goes after anything, hurling himself into jobs, charity work, card games, that one time he didn’t leave his flat all weekend until he’d learned to make a quiche, and right now, it’s directed at her. 

She’s got sighs in her throat, breathy little moans and groans and pleas that she keeps stuffing back down, not sure what the rules are, if she’s not to speak unless spoken to, but when one escapes on a breath, half-broken as she bites it back, he pulls away.

“I want to hear you,” he says. “Let me hear you.”

He kisses her again and she lets go, needy encouragements spilling from her lips in between gaps in their mouths. His teeth tug at her lip and then his tongue licks across the same spot before slipping back into her mouth, kissing her deep and wet until she chases his tongue with her own and he sucks on it lightly. 

She’s lost track of her own hands, let alone his, but when one of them closes around her breast, the pressure firm against the thin cotton of her t-shirt and bra, her focus zeroes in, feeling the pull of his fingers as he tugs lightly at her nipple, and warmth rushes to her center.

Their knees are knocking together, the rhythmic arching of her hips meeting nothing but air, and he makes a frustrated sound before rolling her onto her, pulling back from her only as long as it takes to settle himself between her thighs. Then he’s back, his mouth against her neck, working the skin with wet pressure until his teeth find the join of her neck and shoulder and she bucks helplessly underneath him. 

He pulls back before he’ll leave a mark, but quickly moves to repeat the action on the other side, hips rutting into her, his hard length evident even between the material of their trousers and pants. 

Bracing himself on his forearm, he uses his free hand to palm her breast again, kneading the flesh before growing impatient and slipping his hand beneath her top. It’s clingy and her bra is tight, hampering his movements, and he rocks back onto his heels between her legs, his mouth wet and red as he stares down at her.

He swallows, composing himself, and then looks her in the eye. “Take off your shirt.”

She leans up, following his instruction immediately, and tosses the shirt aside, before looking back to him. 

“Bra, too,” he says, tugging at the knot of his tie. He slips it from his collar and she watches as his gaze casts around the small room, and she understands he’s looking for something to bind her to. 

It’s a fruitless search, there’s barely enough space for the bed in here, and he tosses the tie aside with a grunt. 

“You’re just gonna have to behave then.”

With that, he undoes the top three buttons of his shirt before moving his hands down to tug it and his undershirt over his head. 

She’s been so transfixed watching him that she’d forgotten to get her bra off and he looks down at it pointedly.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Billie.”

A flush heats her cheeks as she stretches an arm behind her to unclasp the garment. Part of her wants to disobey, to see if he’ll punish her, but that’s not what this is about. This is about the control she wants to lose, and the control she’s taken from him by leaving the show. 

This is her giving it back. 

Unclasped now, she slips the bra down her arms, tossing it to the side to join her shirt and his, and then he’s leaning over her, pinning her to the mattress by her forearms.

“Don’t move,” he says. 

And then he bends down, shimmying down the mattress, his hands fluttering uselessly at the front of her trousers.

“Where’s the bloody button?” His palm slicks over the front of her trousers to demonstrate his point, and he sounds so much like himself that she has to laugh.

His gaze darts up to her and he meets her grin with one of his one.

“It’s a side zip, David,” she says. “Honestly, modern bloke like you? Think you’d keep up with women’s fashion more.”

His fingers find the zip, yanking it and her trousers down roughly, hopping from the bed to tug them both off before rejoining her. 

“That’s enough out of you, Ms. Piper,” he says, and then his hands slip up her bare legs, fingers spanning wide over the inside of her thighs. 

One hand slips down to ghost across her center, pressing damp cotton against her warmth, the material stretching as he dips his index finger into her through the fabric. 

He moves the finger back and then higher, rubbing wet friction across her clit and making her groan. It’s a loud sound, and one he looks pleased by, but it’s enough to make a fear of being caught zip through her body.

They won’t be bothered, she knows, not after a scene like that. If anything, someone will ring her on her mobile, checking in, but it still feels like a reason not to linger, even if she’s not the one setting the pace. 

David seems to understand, and pulls back again to strip her off her knickers. He stands at the foot of the bed and undoes his trousers, frantic movements slowing as he gazes down at her naked on the bed.

He cocks his head, taking her in, her hands still pressed up above her head at his instruction. He nods at her. “Touch yourself.”

She hesitates, fingers curling into fists.

“Billie. _Touch yourself_.”

This time she listens, her right hand skating down across her abdomen before sinking between her thighs, dipping into her center to pull moisture before rubbing at her clit.

He nods again, satisfied, and goes back to his trousers, keeping his eyes fixed on the movement of her hand, the helpless way she’s arching her hips. She can give herself more, could probably make herself come in a matter of moments, but she understands, she knows, that’s not what she’s supposed to do.

He finishes on his trousers, dropping them and his pants to the floor before stepping out of them. 

Her eyes dart around bashfully, wanting to look at his cock, but unsure if that’s something she needs permission for, and when he finally speaks, it’s to give it.

“You can look,” he says, and her eyes snap to him immediately. 

For a moment, he simply lets her look, his cock bobbing long and thick and hard, and then he wraps a hand around it, stroking slowly, thumbing swiping at the pre-come on the tip and working it into his skin. 

Her own hand has stilled between her legs and he stops the movement of his hand on his erection.

“Use two fingers,” he says. “All the way in.”

She dips down immediately, slipping her fingers inside with ease, so wet that it’s almost embarrassing. 

“Move them,” he says, hand starting up again on his cock. “Don’t stop until you’re close.”

She wants to watch him, but her eyes slip shut of their own accord, body moving with the rhythm her fingers are setting, the one she knows will get her there the quickest. 

Her lip is between her teeth, muffling any noises she’s making and he growls at her.

“What did I say? Let me hear you.”

And with that, she lets herself go, moaning helplessly in time to the movements of her hand, she wants to rub her clit — wants _him_ to rub her clit — but that’s not what the instructions had been, and so she keeps at it with her fingers inside of her, feeling the bed dip down as he kneels at the foot. 

“We should’ve been doing this all along,” he says roughly. “They all thought we were anyway —”

He’s interrupted by the faint sound of her moisture sloshing with her movements and he groans. 

“Oh god, you’re so fucking wet,” he says. “Have you been like this before around me?”

She nods, “Yes, god, fuck, yes.”

“What a waste,” he says, quietly and she can tell he’s speaking to himself. “Are you getting closer, Billie? Tell me, tell me when you’re close.”

Unable to resist, her fingers slip out, rubbing at her clit in haphazard circles. “Close, close, I’m close.”

He’s between her legs in an instant, nose pushing her fingers out of the way as his tongue laps slowly from the bottom of her entrance to the top of her clit. She grunts, bucking into his mouth, “Yes, yes, yes,” encouragement and filth is spilling from her mouth in a torrent, “Fuck, god, your fucking tongue, that’s so good, that’s so fucking good.”

His eyes are watching her across the planes of her body and his hands move to grip her tightly, one curling nearly to the point of pain around her thigh and the other scratching at her hip, her stomach, anywhere he can reach. Then he’s tapping out a rough rhythm on her clit, building, building, building, until she can’t keep it in anymore and she arches up from the mattress with a cry, her hands moving to pull at his hair as she comes hard against his mouth. 

He works her through her orgasm, little lingering swipes of his tongue that have her shuddering through aftershocks until it’s too much and she uses the hands in his hair to pull him back. 

When he pulls back his mouth is wet and pink and he wipes it against the inside of her thigh, smearing her moisture into her skin before moving up until his hips rest in the cradle of her own.

His cock is trapped between them, pressing at an angle against her clit, and she ruts against it, trying to start the build again, when he grabs her hands, pinning them to the mattress once more.

“Gonna fuck you now, Bill,” he says. “Is that what you want?”

She nods before thrashing her head back and forth on the pillow, trying to get him to move, but his body is a solid weight above hers.

“Ah ah,” he says. “Tell me. Is that what you want?”

“Yes, fuck, god, I want you to fuck me, what is wrong with you? Bloody sadist,” she grinds out, trying once more to arch her hips.

He grins down at her and she can’t help but grin back, and this — _this_ — is how it should’ve been all along, long months in Cardiff and flats so close to each other, they should’ve been laughing and grinning and shagging this whole time. 

At least they’re here now though, and his eyebrows waggle at her before he’s taking his cock in hand and lining himself up at her entrance. 

The tip of him is just pressing against her, the pressure reassuring and promising and, god, seriously is he waiting _again_?

Before he can tell what she’s about, she’s wrenches her other arm free and uses both of her hands to grab him by the arse and pull him home.

He lets out a quick surprised noise followed by a groan, stilling above her as he seats himself fully inside of her. 

Her legs wind around him, heels coming to rest just below his arse, and then she’s slipping her arms underneath his where he’s braced above her, one hand in twining in his hair, the other curling into the skin over his ribs. 

“ _Move_ , Seven-Inch,” she says in his ear and he pulls back to gape at her, surprised and delighted. “What, like I didn’t look? You _told_ me to.”

“I did,” he says, shifting inside of her without pulling back.

“And I told _you_ to move,” she says.

He nips at her lower lip before kissing her wet and messy for a moment. “And I told _you_ that you weren’t in charge. Lucky I’m thinking the same thing.”

With that, he pulls back before pushing into her again, long, slow strokes that feel nice, but aren’t what she’s looking for.

“By all means,” she grunts, “take your bloody time. Only took you months to get here after all.”

He slams into her a little rougher, forcing a breath from her lungs as he sparkles a grin down at her before resuming his languid pace.

She goes limp underneath him, limbs flopping bonelessly to the side. “If that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll just lie back and think of England. Or Wales, as it were.”

He shifts, tugging her hand back up and awkwardly maneuvering until it rests in his hair once more. “Oh, no, you don’t, you’ll be an active participant,” and then he’s off, fucking her like she wanted all along, hard and fast and sweaty, and she’s proud to see he’s not talking so much anymore, instead muttering in her ear in a parrot of her earlier dialogue.

“Billie, god, that’s fucking great,” he says, and then she loses track of who’s speaking, just _yes_ and _fuck_ and _please_ , _harder_ and _faster_ and _god_. The sound of his skin slapping against hers echoes loud and she’s got both of her hands on his back now, scratching at him, holding on tight as he does his best to fuck her into the mattress.

His noises grow more urgent, almost pleading, and she’s so close again, if he would just come, if he would just come inside of her, it’s going to be enough to send her over, she knows it, and then he’s arching against her, body going rigid as he tenses and spills himself inside of her. It works and she tips after him, limbs tightening around him as the spasms of her orgasm milk him through his own. 

When he pulls back, she keeps her limbs tight, unwilling to let him slip out just yet, and instead he collapses on top of her, keeping a little of his weight braced on his forearms as he maneuvers them between her back and the mattress, so they’re hugging, again.

“Lot different than out on the beach,” she says, tapping a hand against his back to indicate what she means.

“Hmm,” he agrees, face buried in her neck. 

It strikes her then that it hadn’t made her sad, it’s only been an hour, if that, since they wrapped, and somehow she feels better already. She’s in control, but it’s the good kind, the kind she can breathe through.

Just as soon as she gets the Scottish bloke off her lungs.


End file.
